


Lasting Images

by Sarren



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Murder Husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 20:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9841913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarren/pseuds/Sarren
Summary: Footage emerges of the night Hannibal Lecter vanished.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Zebra for her awesome beta skills.

**MURDER HUSBANDS’ SUICIDE PACT**

The photo that accompanies the lurid headline is a blown up, grainy image of two shadowy figures outlined against the sky, appearing to topple off a cliff. There’s a URL to the video on TattleCrime.com as well, but it’s the copy on YouTube that’s racked up over a million views since it appeared less than 24 hours ago, one year after the slaying of the Dragon and the disappearance of Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham. He wonders how long she’s had the video, been sitting on it; the timing of its release is clearly deliberate. He barely glances at the article, it’s nothing he hasn’t read before, rabid speculation about the nature of Hannibal’s and Will’s relationship, and Will’s complicity and own pathology.

The higher ups are demanding to know how Freddie Lounds got hold of Dolarhyde’s video footage. Jack will go through the motions — God knows he doesn’t have much else to do. He’s still on administrative duties during the investigation into Hannibal Lecter’s escape from custody and Will Graham’s role in the whole debacle. The official story is that Graham is a hero who took down Hannibal the Cannibal, sacrificing his own life in doing so. The YouTube video certainly appears to back that up. But Jack’s watched that footage over and over. He watches Will’s arm slide around Hannibal’s neck, watches as he embraces him closely, sees the weight shift as he pulls Hannibal off the cliff with him and he… doesn’t believe it for a second. 

More than anyone else Jack can attest to the sheer strength of Hannibal Lecter, the solidity of muscle and the coiled power so tightly leashed. If Will pulled Hannibal off the cliff it was because Hannibal allowed him to. It’s the why that’s critical. Was Hannibal suicidal in the end? Unlikely. Unless in Hannibal’s twisted, unfathomable mind it was an expression of love, because Jack understands, finally, Hannibal’s motivation, his drive. It all comes down to Will Graham. 

But Jack’s convinced that Hannibal is too arrogant, too supremely confident in his own superiority to choose death. And if he wasn’t suicidal then he had a plan that would give him at least a chance of survival. Honestly, Jack can’t see how; even looking over the edge of that cliff gave him vertigo. What were the odds of two (already wounded) men surviving a fall into the icy water of the Atlantic Ocean? But divers scoured the area for their bodies in vain. Not so much as a scrap of clothing. 

It’s likely that the investigation will end with the two men declared dead and the case closed, because the FBI want this whole debacle over and done with. Jack’s been sitting on his ass for a year. He’s been tacitly informed that as long as he shuts the fuck up and doesn’t go off on any more unauthorized trips to foreign countries in search of ghosts he’ll be allowed to keep his desk job and retire quietly in the not too distant future.

Jack is tired. So tired. He watches the footage again. Searching for any other clue he’s missed. He can’t let it go completely, but he won’t actively pursue it. He’ll just keep an eye out, that’s all.

*****************************************************************************************

Alana marks the day. One year since Will’s plan to fake Hannibal’s escape went so horribly wrong (or horribly right). One year since the news reports about the blood trail left by two wounded men that ended at the edge of the cliff. They’d vanished off the face of the earth. She’d bitten her fingernails to the quick fighting the temptation to contact Jack, to find out if that was the whole of it or if the real story was too horrible to be made public. Not knowing was terrifying, but the risk was simply too great.

The news of the leaked tape made headlines around the world, even reaching them here, as far from civilization (at least, Hannibal’s idea of it), as possible. She’d felt such overwhelming relief she’d had to sit down a moment, dizzy from the flood of adrenaline. But even before she’d seen the footage, the so very _convenient_ footage, of Will tipping Hannibal over a cliff, she’d known. Watching Will embrace Hannibal so snugly, she hadn’t been fooled into believing Hannibal’s head tuck towards Will was about love, or at least, not only. She knows Hannibal better than anyone (except for Will of course). The way his arm fell from Will’s waist as they overbalanced was telling. Perhaps even deliberate. A message to her. To Jack. She doesn’t bother to wonder whether he (they) survived. Hannibal chose to go over that cliff. The way he’d stood still as Will staggered over to him, let Will fall to his knees and then pulled him up close to him, close to the edge. Of course Hannibal knew what Will would do. They were practically the same person now. One mind.

Dawn is creeping over the distant hills. It’ll be time to get up and feed the animals soon. She gives herself until the light reaches their room, and snuggles back into bed, close to Margot’s warmth. She curls her fingers into fists to stop herself reaching to touch her. It wouldn’t be kind, not with the hyper-vigilant state they live in. They’ve run as far and as fast as they can, but Alana’s not betting their lives that Hannibal can’t find them if he wants to. She didn’t choose the remotest, most inaccessible station in central Australia under the illusion that Hannibal couldn’t find them, she chose it because she hoped that Hannibal’s dislike of discomfort, of exerting himself, would discourage immediate revenge. If Will has any say in it they’ll be holed up somewhere remote and snow-capped. Will. She suspects that if Hannibal has survived, then so has Will. Hannibal wouldn’t permit otherwise. She hopes Will has survived, and not just for any moderating influence he may have upon Hannibal.

If any. She wonders if Will’s gesture was about sacrifice, or about surrender. If he was saving the world from Hannibal. Or saving Hannibal for himself. If Will has surrendered himself. Embraced his potential. His own darkness.

There’s nothing of their previous life to lead back to them. She’s learned from Hannibal’s mistake. The property is leased through multiple dummy companies. They keep only enough chickens and cows to supply them with eggs and milk and they grow their own vegetables. The Toyota HiLux they drive two hours to the nearest town to get supplies is second-hand, with ‘Save Ningaloo Reef’ and ‘Reuse, Recycle, Reduce’ stickers on the back bumper. Their jeans and flannel shirts were bought off the rack in a shopping mall, and the heels of their boots are Cuban, practical for farming. They wear sunscreen instead of make up when they go outdoors. It doesn’t matter, there’s no one to see them. 

Alana finds she likes it out here. The vast silences, the endless sky and the red, red desert that yet supports so many types of life. It’s freeing.

*****************************************************************************************

“Hell of a first date,” Will smiles. The footage of them is on every news channel. He wonders if this will lay to rest the endless speculation about their potential whereabouts, if the public will believe they are dead. That’s probably what Hannibal intended; he must have repositioned Dolarhyde’s camera before he joined the fight. Neither Jack nor Alana will be convinced, of course. Hannibal will have intended that too.

Hannibal regards him blandly. “Is that what that was?”

“What else would you call it? You took me to a romantic secluded getaway, plied me with wine and provided me with entertainment.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“Actually the timing of Freddie’s latest headline grab couldn’t be more perfect,” Will smirks. “I never thanked you, did I?”

“I never expected you to.”

Will scratches his cheek past the close-trimmed beard. He ducks his head a bit, the gesture a holdover from his previous life, the old Will Graham. “I have a gift for you,” he says, and reaches for the cloth thrown over the item propped on the dining room cabinet, the one Hannibal has been eyeing since he’d got home, but has been studiously polite about not mentioning. He pulls the cover off with a flourish, his eyes on Hannibal’s face.

Hannibal is utterly still for a moment, then his face breaks into the soft smile he’d bestowed on Will in the Uffizi when Will first found him. Will’s heart beats a little faster at the sight. He’d held the memory of that smile through Hannibal’s trial, through the years and the prisons that separated them.

“Remarkable,” Hannibal breathes, stepping back a few paces to study it from different angles.

“Isn’t it?”

The artist had indeed surpassed himself. Working from several sketches Will had found in Hannibal’s sketch book, rough drafts as though Hannibal hadn’t quite achieved the result he was after, and from photos of the two of them Will had snapped on his phone, he’d brought the scene to life. Hannibal cradled Will to him. Will’s head rested against his shoulder. Their expressions were blissful. Blood painted Will’s cheek like a blessing.

“The artist?”

“His last and greatest work.”

Hannibal nods in agreement. “How did you compel his discretion?” He lifts a sidelong eyebrow at Will. “Or do you have him secreted away in the basement, still?”

Will shoved his hands in his pockets. “I thought about confining him while he worked, perhaps releasing him when we were ready to move on.”

“You decided against it.”

Will shrugs. “I considered that it would have adversely affected the quality of his art.”

“Best not to compromise on quality,” Hannibal agrees placidly.

“I informed him that his wife’s welfare depended on his discretion. I was very convincing.” 

“I’m sure you were.” Hannibal’s hand drifts to Will’s shoulder, his fingertips brushing the nape of Will’s neck. Will’s breath catches despite himself, and he knows that Hannibal is aware of his reaction. Had probably intended to elicit it.

“It certainly captures the beauty of the moment more than the terrible quality of the Dragon’s film. Perhaps we should take a photo and send it to our friends,” Hannibal suggests, his tone light, whimsical.

“No need.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve arranged another composition for Jack’s edification.”

Hannibal’s expression is politely inquiring, but his human mask hasn’t fooled Will in a long time. Hannibal’s eyes burn.

“Later,” Will promises, and Hannibal’s head dips fractionally in acknowledgement.

Will has prepared dinner while Hannibal was out. It doesn’t compare to one of Hannibal’s masterpieces, of course, but he’s been an attentive student, and Hannibal all but radiates his pleasure and approval as they dine. He doesn’t attempt to elicit any more information from Will. As always, he gives his full attention to his appreciation of his food. 

 

Will opens the door to the artist’s studio. During the day, a light, airy room with high beams and lots of glass. At night, with the blinds drawn, the darkness is absolute. He flicks on the display.

It’s Hannibal’s turn to catch his breath. Will looks at him under his lashes, inexplicably, suddenly shy.  
Suspended from the ceiling, caught in the spotlight, eternally falling. Shadows on artfully draped shade cloth evoke the jagged cliff behind. From each corner of the room whisper the sound of waves crashing against rocks.

The artist’s shoulders hunch as he twists to absorb the inevitable impact. His sweater is stained black with blood, a ragged bullet wound hole mars the grey cashmere. His mouth is bloody. His wife’s arms are wrapped around him, her legs hooked around his own. Her face is made glorious — her cheekbone laid open, blood painting her cheek; her right shoulder soaked with gore.

Their expressions are serene.

Hannibal turns to gaze at him and there’s no mistaking the adoration in his eyes. His slightly distant expression is gone; the one that he’s worn since they recovered, since they stumbled out of the water, terribly wounded, dragged each other to shelter and patched each other’s wounds. 

“You didn’t do this for Jack.”

Will smiled. “Only in so far as he will understand the message.”

“Will…”

”Yes?”

“It’s beautiful.”

Will’s words, on the cliff. The same hushed tone, the same reverence. Deliberately Will steps forward. They breathe the same breath, and Will inhales the subtle scent of Hannibal’s aftershave, Hannibal’s arms encircle him, just like in the painting, just like during their rebirth.

“Happy anniversary,” Will murmurs, as Hannibal leans forward, eyes intent, to complete their transformation.


End file.
